But the world has forgotten what to say to men of twenty-four who cry. Sir Edwin followed his daughter, giving a despairing look at Lady Peaslake and Lilian as he departed.
Lady Peaslake took up the line of behaving as if nothing had happened, and began talking in a high voice about the events of the day. Harold did not attempt to leave the room, but still stood near the table, sobbing and gulping for breath.
Lilian, moved by a more human impulse, tremulously asked him why he cried, and at this point the stiff-backed lady, who had sat through everything, gathered up her skirts as if she had seen a beetle, and slipped from the room.
“I cry because I’m unhappy: because Mildred’s angry with me.”
“Er—er,” said Lady Peaslake, “I’m sure that it would be Mildred’s wish that you should stop.”
“I thought at dinner,” he gasped, “that she was not pleased. Why? Why? Nothing had happened. Nothing but happiness, I mean. The best way, I thought, of showing I love her is to kiss her, and that will make her understand again. You know, she understood everything.”
“Oh yes,” said Lady Peaslake. “Look,” she added to divert him, “how do you like my new embroidery?”
“It’s hideous—perfectly hideous!” was his vigorous reply.
“Well, here is a particular gentleman!” said good-natured Lady Peaslake. “Why, it’s Liberty!”
“Frightful,” said Harold. He had stopped crying. His face was all twisted with pain, but such a form of expressing emotion is fairly suitable for men, and Lady Peaslake felt easier.
But he returned to Mildred. “She called me a cad and a charlatan.”
“Oh, never mind!” said Lilian.
“I may be a cad. I never did quite see what a cad is, and no one ever quite explained to me. But a charlatan! Why did she call me a charlatan? I can’t quite see what I’ve done.”
He began to walk up and down the little room. Lady Peaslake gently suggested a stroll, but he took no notice and kept murmuring “Charlatan.”
“Why are pictures like this allowed!” he suddenly cried. He had stopped in front of a coloured print in which the martyrdom of St. Agatha was depicted with all the fervour that incompetence could command.
“It’s only a saint,” said Lady Peaslake, placidly raising her head.
“How disgusting—and how ugly!”
“Yes, very. It’s Roman Catholic.”
He turned away shuddering, and began his everlasting question—“Why did she call me a charlatan?”
Lady Peaslake felt compelled to say—“You see, Harold, you annoyed her, and when people are annoyed they will say anything. I know it by myself.”
“But a charlatan! I know for certain that she understands me. Only this afternoon I told her—”
“Oh, yes,” said Lady Peaslake.
“Told her that I had lived before—lived here over two thousand years ago, she thinks.”
“Harold! my dear Harold! what nonsense are you talking?” Lady Peaslake had risen from her chair.
“Over two thousand years ago, when the place had another name.”
“Good heavens; he is mad!”
“Mildred didn’t think so. It’s she who matters. Lilian, do you believe me?”
“No,” faltered Lilian, edging towards the door.
He smiled, rather contemptuously.
“Now, Harold,” said Lady Peaslake, “go and lie down, there’s a good boy. You want rest. Mildred will call you charlatan with reason if you say such silly, such wicked things—good gracious me! He’s fainting! Lilian! water from the dining-room! Oh, what has happened? We were all so happy this morning.”
The stiff-backed lady reentered the room, accompanied by a thin little man with a black beard.
“Are you a doctor?” cried Lady Peaslake.
He was not, but he helped them to lay Harold on the sofa. He had not really fainted, for he was talking continually.
“You might have killed me,” he said to Lady Peaslake, “you have said such an awful thing. You mean she thinks I never lived before. I know you’re wrong, but it nearly kills me if you even say it. I have lived before—such a wonderful life. You will hear—Mildred will say it again. She won’t like talking about it, but she’ll say it if I want her to. That will save me from—from—from being a charlatan. Where is Mildred?”
“Hush!” said the little man.
“I have lived before—I have lived before, haven’t I? Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” said the little man.
“You lie,” said Harold. “Now I’ve only to see people and I can tell. Where is Mildred?”
“You must come to bed.”
“I don’t speak or move till she comes.”
So he lay silent and motionless on the sofa, while they stood around him whispering.
Mildred returned in a very different mood. A few questions from her father, followed by a few grave words of rebuke, had brought her to a sober mind. She was terribly in fault; she had nourished Harold’s insanity first by encouraging it, then by rebuffing it. Sir Edwin severely blamed her disordered imagination, and bade her curb it; its effects might be disastrous, and he told her plainly that unless Harold entirely regained his normal condition he would not permit the marriage to take place. She acknowledged her fault, and returned determined to repair it; she was full of pity and contrition, but at the same time she was very matter-of-fact.
He heard them return and rushed to meet her, and she rushed to meet him. They met in the long passage, where it was too dark to see each other’s faces,
“Harold,” she said hurriedly, “I said two dreadful words to you. Will you forgive me?”
She tried to touch him, but he pushed her off with his arm, and said—“Come to the light.”
The landlord appeared with a lamp. Harold took it and held it up to Mildred’s face.
“Don’t!” she said feebly.
“Harold!” called Lady Peaslake. “Come back!”
“Look at me!” said Harold.
“Don’t!” said Mildred and shut her eyes.
“Open your eyes!”
She opened them, and saw his. Then she screamed and called out to her father—“Take him away! I’m frightened. He’s mad!
